TO DOCTOR BEATTIE, IN GRATEFUL ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF
HIS VERY INTERESTING PRESENT.
"Bard of the North! I thank thee with my tears
For this fond work of thy paternal hand:
It bids the buried youth before me stand
In nature's softest light, which love endears.
Parents like thee, whose grief the world reveres,
Faithful to pure affection's proud command,
For a lost child have lasting honours plann'd,
To give in fame what fate denied in years.
The filial form of Icarus was wrought
By his afflicted sire, the sire of art!
And Tullia's fane engross'd her father's heart:
That fane rose only in perturbed thought;
But sweet perfection crowns, as truth begun,
This Christian image of thy happier son."
[Z] It was afterwards published for sale in 1799. I extract from it a jeu d'esprit—one of those pieces which Beattie printed, in opposition to the advice of Sir William Forbes and some other grave friends.
THE MODERN TIPPLING PHILOSOPHERS.
Father Hodge[1] had his pipe and his dram,
And at night, his cloy'd thirst to awaken,
He was served with a rasher of ham,
Which procured him the surname of Bacon.
He has shown that, though logical science
And dry theory oft prove unhandy,
Honest Truth will ne'er set at defiance
Experiment, aided by brandy.
Des Cartes bore a musket, they tell us,
Ere he wished, or was able, to write,
And was noted among the brave fellows,
Who are bolder to tipple than fight.
Of his system the cause and design
We no more can be pos'd to explain:—
The materia subtilis was wine,
And the vortices whirl'd in his brain.
Old Hobbes, as his name plainly shows,
At a hob-nob was frequently tried:
That all virtue from selfishness rose
He believ'd, and all laughter from pride.[2]
The truth of his creed he would brag on,
Smoke his pipe, murder Homer,[3] and quaff,
Then staring, as drunk as a dragon,
In the pride of his heart he would laugh.
Sir Isaac discover'd, it seems,
The nature of colors and light,
In remarking the tremulous beams
That swom on his wandering sight.
Ever sapient, sober though seldom,
From experience attraction he found,
By observing, when no one upheld him,
That his wise head fell souse on the ground.
As to Berkley's philosophy—he has
Left his poor pupils nought to inherit,
But a swarm of deceitful ideas
Kept like other monsters, in spirit.[4]
Tar-drinkers can't think what's the matter,
That their health does not mend, but decline:
Why, they take but some wine to their water,
He took but some water to wine.
One Mandeville once, or Man-devil,
(Either name you may give as you please)
By a brain ever brooding on evil,
Hatch'd a monster call'd Fable of Bees,
Vice, said he, aggrandizes a people;[5]
By this light let my conduct be view'd;
I swagger, swear, guzzle, and tipple:
And d—— ye, 'tis all for your good.